


When You Think You're Done (You’ve Just Begun)

by annathaema (moony)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Father-Son Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mother-Son Relationship, The Graduation Kiss Never Happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 05:56:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13711296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moony/pseuds/annathaema
Summary: Everything stops. There's no sound, not even the sound of the blood that should be rushing in Eric's ears. He can feel the Earth stop turning. The sun goes dark, and for a second Eric knows what it's like to simply cease existing, to be sucked into a vacuum of silence. He's negative space, he's insignificant particles floating in nothing at all."What happened?"*A week in the life of a death.





	When You Think You're Done (You’ve Just Begun)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Fiona and Hillary for their usual superpower of making me sound better than I am.
> 
> "Grief is in two parts. The first is loss. The second is the remaking of life."
> 
> \- Anne Roiphe
> 
> Title via U2.
> 
>  
> 
> (Note: AO3 has this annoying habit of putting random spaces around Italics, between words and punctuation. I'm trying to fix them all, but I may have missed some. If you see one, point it out in a comment and I'll take care of it!)

****

 

**This story is dedicated to my mother. LLAP**

The door is open to go through

If I could I would come too

But the path is made by you

As you‘re walking, start singing and stop talking

— **U2** , "Love Is Bigger Than Anything In Its Way"

—

There's a standoff happening in the kitchenwares section of Murder Stop & Shop.

"I'm just saying," says Eric in what he thinks is a perfectly reasonable tone because he is a perfectly reasonable Southern gentleman. "There's a lot to be said for having a devilled egg tray. Everyone should have one!"

Jack gives him a look, his _I-am-captaining-you-right-now_ look (patent pending). It used to make Eric wither in place whenever Jack would aim that look at him—which he did, a _lot—_ but now when Eric sees it he only feels vaguely itchy, like he wants to get his gear on and go hit people with sticks. Emboldened, he stares Jack in the eye for a good five seconds before he slumps and exhales in defeat.

"Okay, okay," he says, putting the tray back on the shelf. "I suppose Christmas is coming, anyway."

"If you get Shitty a devilled egg tray he's just going to use it for sorting weed," says Jack. He gets a fond look. "Hm. Actually, he might appreciate it."

Eric beams and drops the tray into the buggy. "It does not surprise me that the only thing he can bake are brownies. I keep meaning to show him how to make better ones, but he _keeps eating all the batter_ and then spends an hour on the living room floor inspecting carpet fibers." He pushes the buggy into the next aisle. "Oh! These are amazing—look, nested ladles that look like the Loch Ness Monster!" He waggles one at Jack. "Rawr."

"Bittle," says Jack, stern though he's smiling. He checks his phone. "The party started half an hour ago, lâ?"

"Ah yes, of course. Mister Knight's soirees are always very punctual, I do declare." Eric loves to exaggerate his accent for dramatic effect; it makes Jack laugh, boisterous and sincere. Eric loves that, too. Eric just loves _Jack._

And this banter they're keeping up in the aisle of the grocery store is only making it harder to keep that to himself. Jack just makes it so _easy_ to flirt. Fortunately for Eric, it's _Jack,_ who would probably need a puck to the face to realize he's being flirted with, so Eric is probably safe. Straight boys are predictable.

Jack makes a face at him. "Okay, good point. Still, I'd like to get there _before midnight._  Morning skate might be optional but I do have a game tomorrow."

Eric nods. "Okay, okay. Four jars of pickles?"

"Check."

"I don't know why he needs—anyway. Ice?"

"Up front by the two-fours."

"Okay—the what?"

Jack rolls his eyes. "You do this every time."

Eric leans his elbows on the buggy, chin in his hands. He bats his eyes. "Tell me about winter hats again, Jack. What are they called?"

Jack scowls and taps the buggy. "What's this?"

"No," says Eric. "You are _not_ turning this around on me."

"It's a carriage," says Jack and Eric _knows_ he's doing it to set him off. It's working, damn it. Eric points at him.

"Carriages are for _horses,_ " he says. "This is a buggy. Y'all need Jesus."

Jack nods. "And hats are toques."

"You can't _French_ everything to make it sound cool!"

 _"Éric Richard Bittle,_ " says Jack, enveloping Eric's name with his stupid accent and his stupid deep voice and somehow gives it its own language, something a little rough and lyrical that Eric would really, really like to learn to speak. "How's that?"

"Buh." Eric shakes his head to clear it and rolls his shoulders like this is a pregame huddle. "We gonna do this or what?"

Halfway through checking out Eric's phone rings. He steps out of line when he sees the _Mama_ on the screen. "Be right back," he says to Jack, who nods and has his wallet out already anyway. Eric finds a nice little niche between the the Coinstar and gachapon machines before he answers. "Hi, Mama!"

"Dicky?" she says, and from just the first syllable of his name Eric immediately knows that something very bad has happened.

"Mama, are you okay?" he asks. Eric tunes out the store completely until all he can hear is his own breathing. If she's making any sound at all it's too quiet to hear. "Mama?"

"We lost him," she says. Her voice cracks and for a moment Eric can't decipher anything she's saying, she's crying too hard. "We—Dicky—"

"Dicky?" says a new voice. "It's Gracie Mae."

Gracie Mae is the only cousin Eric likes. She's four years older; they used to spend hours playing _American Idol_ in the shed behind her house. "What's going on?" he asks warily. "What's wrong with Mama?"

"Eric," says Gracie Mae. She sighs. "God, I hate telling you this over the phone. Kiddo, your daddy's gone."

Everything stops. There's no sound, not even the sound of the blood that should be rushing in Eric's ears. He can feel the Earth stop turning. The sun goes dark, and for a second Eric knows what it's like to simply cease existing, to be sucked into a vacuum of silence. He's nothing, he's dust, he's insignificant particles floating in nothing at all.

And then just as suddenly everything kicks back into gear, like a video on pause returning to normal time. The beeps of the registers are louder than they were before, and the PA system announces a special on croissants. _They're probably not as good as mine_ , Eric thinks. He doesn't know why he thinks that, not right now. Not when—

"What do you mean, _gone._ What happened?" he whispers, turning away from the bustle of the store.

"It was his heart," says Gracie Mae. "One minute he was running the kids through drills and then he was down on the field. He never made it to the hospital. He never even woke up. They said it was real fast and he didn't feel any pain, so don't go worryin' about that none, okay Dicky?"

Eric nods even though she can't see him. He's not crying—he's a little surprised by that, that not only is he not crying but he feels no real compulsion to. He cries at everything—animal adoption commercials, a perfect caramel torte, Chowder's passing grade on an exam—so it's strange that he doesn't feel like crying when the worst thing to happen to him is _still happening._

He does, however, know that he has to get out of this store and down to Madison right now.

"Can you take care of her?" he asks.

"Yeah," says Gracie Mae. "I got her, but it'd be real good if you can get down here, kiddo."

"I'm on my way. I'll be there tomorrow, come hell or high water."

Gracie Mae huffs what could be loosely described as a laugh. "I believe in you, Short Stuff. See you soon. And honey, I'm so sorry."

It's kind of the last thing he wants to hear right now— _sorry what are you sorry for you didn't kill him he wasn't even your daddy I don't want any sorries—_ but he knows it comes from her heart so he doesn't knee-jerk snap at her. "Thanks," is all he says. "See you soon."

Eric finds Jack waiting for him by the doors. Eric smiles at him and makes to grab one of the bags in Jack's hands, only for Jack to hold them out of reach. Eric jumps for them, like he always does, and Jack laughs and hands him one, like he always does, and it's just another normal Monday evening in October. There's still light in the sky and the night-birds are waking up. His daddy's gone but everything keeps going. There really is life after death, just not exactly what they lead you to believe.

It's too eerie. Eric shudders.

Once they're in the car and buckled in he reaches out and puts his hand on Jack's before he can start the car. "Bittle?" Jack blinks at him and drops his hand, jingles the keys but not impatiently. "You okay?"

"My dad died," he says, easy like he's just told Jack tomorrow's forecast. He hadn't let himself think those words yet but he's gone ahead and said them and they're out there now, heavy in the air of the car like a troubling scent.

The startled, _awful_ surprise on Jack's face is too much for Eric to take and he bows forward suddenly, sucks in all his breath and tries not to scream.

"Hey, _hey_!" Jack struggles with his seatbelt and then Eric's seatbelt before he grabs for him and pulls him across the center console and hugs him even though it's awkward and kind of painful. Eric's still not crying— _why isn't he crying—_ but he can't breathe; his chest feels concave and his heart is so, so close to just stopping, he can feel it. He can't move. He can't speak. He closes his eyes and hopes Jack can somehow sense that he's in trouble.

"Okay," says Jack. "Come on, Bittle, breathe. Breathe with me, little breaths at first, whatever you can manage. In and out."

They breathe together and it helps, though it's not doing much to dislodge the knot in Eric's throat. He can at least get air back into his lungs, and Jack doesn't let go right away so Eric can keep his eyes squeezed shut and surround himself with Jack's curious and weirdly comforting blend of Acqua di Gio and Tide for a little while longer.

"You good?" He can feel Jack shifting around, probably trying to look at him. Eric burrows in further. "Okay."

They sit like this for a while; Eric loses track of time. He could fall asleep like this easily, gathered up and warm and protected, but eventually he has to relax and pull away with a sniff, even though he's (still) not crying. "I'm fine," he says. "Sorry."

"No sorries," says Jack, reordering Eric's hair for a moment before releasing him. He scoots back into the driver's seat and pulls out his phone; Eric doesn't have to guess to know he's texting Shitty. Eric curls up against the passenger door and stares out of the window at shoppers going in and out of the store.

"I need to go home," he whispers, mostly to himself but loud enough for Jack to hear. He's not sure if he's referring to Madison or the Haus, and it feels like he's betraying his dad that he doesn't immediately know the difference.

"Okay," says Jack. He tosses his phone into one of the cup holders in the console and starts the car. "We're going to the Haus to get your stuff and then we're going to get you to Georgia."

Eric sits up straight. "Jack, I can—"

"It's fine, Bittle."

Eric frowns. Jack's not getting it. He makes a frustrated noise. "You don't have to—"

"I know I don't," says Jack. "And yet, here I am, doing it. Buckle up."

Eric opens his mouth and Jack gives him a look. "Unless the next words you say are 'help me pack when we get to the Haus' then you should just put Beyoncé on or something instead."

"Oh." Eric deflates a little. "Actually, I really don't think I'm in the mood for Beyoncé right now," he says, curling up against the door again. Jack reaches over and rests his hand on Eric's knee, giving it a squeeze. Eric glances at him and offers him a wan little smile, all he can manage right now.

He pretends not to notice that Jack is going well over the speed limit.

—

The Haus is dark when they arrive. Everyone is out, most of them in Boston for Shitty's party, so there's no interference from starstruck frogs as Eric makes his way upstairs with Jack following a step behind. They head straight for Eric's room, where he finds his backpack and unceremoniously dumps his books out on the bed. He starts stuffing random clothes into it without really paying attention, and he has the bag half-full when suddenly Jack's hands are on his and he's taking the backpack away.

"You just packed six pairs of underwear, three socks, and my flannel shirt—wait, did I leave that here?"

Eric shakes his head. "I don't know—what am I even doing?" He lets go of the backpack and runs a hand through his hair. "What about classes? The _team?_ I can't just—" But then again. "But Mama needs me, and Moomaw's so _old,_ and—"

Jack rests a hand on Eric's shoulder. "Go sit on the bed. Do you need anything? Water?"

Eric shakes his head. "M'fine," he says. He's well-versed in being "fine". Unfortunately, Jack seems to be well-versed in _Eric_ because he just shakes his head like he ( _obviously,_ Eric grumbles) doesn't believe him and starts tucking shirts and pants and shorts into the bag.

"This is a week's worth of clothes," he says. "You have a washing machine and some stuff there probably, so you don't need much. Get your laptop and the charger, and your phone charger, too. Do you take medications? I can't remember, but we need to get those."

"I have done this before," says Eric. He knows he sounds more tetchy than he is, but he's never liked being micro-managed. He picks up the little pencil case he keeps his vitamins in and hands it to Jack. "I go home all the time."

"Yes, but right now your hands are shaking so hard you can barely hold on to your phone."

Eric looks down. So they are.

Jack puts the case, plus some underpants and socks into the bag. "Okay. Toothbrush."

Eric goes to fetch it from the bathroom. When he returns, Jack's got his phone out and he's conversing with someone in impossibly-fast Québécois.

"Okay," he says when he hangs up. "The jet will be pick us up at Logan."

Eric looks at him. "The jet?"

Jack nods. "Dad's. He's sending it to Boston to pick us up." He bites his bottom lip. "He wanted me to tell you that anything else you need, just ask."

"Whoa, whoa—wait." Eric holds up his hands. "I don't even know how to unpack all of this. Your dad sent a _jet?_ Your dad _has_ a jet?"

"Yes," says Jack, making the face he makes when it dawns on him that having a parent who owns a _private jet_ might be considered a little weird. "He bought it about ten years ago. He never shuts up about it. He's thrilled to be able use it to help you."

"But—"

" _Bittle._ " Jack drops the bag on the bed and grabs Eric by the shoulders. "You need to go home. This is the fastest way to get you there. _Let us help you._ "

Mollified, Eric nods and Jack picks up the bag again and zips it shut. "What else do you need?" he asks.

Eric wraps his arms around himself. "Kinda wish Shitty was here with his stash right about now," he says. "I don't even _like_ weed but it would be real nice to not be sober right now."

"Yeah," says Jack. "Watch out for that. It can get away from you."

Eric feels the blood drain from his face. "Oh, Jack! I'm so—"

Jack, who seems to have had quite enough of Eric's protests, covers Eric's mouth with his hand.

"What's that, Jack?" says Jack in a wretched accent that sounds less Rhett Butler and more Jed Clampett. "We are a-leavin' now? Alrighty, I'll just go wait in the car while y'all lock up!"

Eric shoves his hand away. "You've made your point," he huffs. "I'll be in the car."

He pauses on the porch on his way out, leaning against one of the pillars and looking out over the street. He'd always wanted his dad to visit him at Samwell. Maybe come to a game, or Parents' Weekend, _anything._ There'd always been a lot of talk, of course, but nothing had ever materialized. _Your daddy's just busy, honey. He's proud, though. Real proud._

He sure had a funny way of being proud.

Eric will never get to show his daddy the Haus. His team, his found family, will never get to meet him. Eric will never walk him over to Faber to show him the rink. He won't get to see him after a game, after they've won and the team is jubilant and Eric's daddy is there to shake his hand and say _good game Junior—_

He won't be at graduation.

He's not even aware of Jack's presence until he feels a gentle touch on his back. "Eric?" Jack says softly. "C'mon, let's get up." Eric hadn't even noticed that he was kneeling on the porch. He let Jack guide him up and steer him toward the car. "Can you get in?"

"I'm fine," says Eric by rote. He climbs in and buckles up as Jack tosses the backpack in the backseat.

"You sure you don't want anything for the road?" Jack winces. "There's Dunkin and there's Cumbies. I can go either way."

"If I eat anything it ain't gonna stay down," says Eric. He curls his hands protectively over his stomach. "Maybe a coke later. Something cold and fizzy."

"Can do."

The ride to Logan is nearly silent. A few times Jack reaches for the radio and then seems to think better of it and returns his hand to the steering wheel. The quiet is so _loud_ and Eric wants to fill it so bad, but he doesn't open his mouth. He has a thousand things to say, he's bursting at the seams with it all, but no idea where to start or even whom to say it to.

Well, one idea.

"Jack?"

"Mmm?" Jack keeps his eyes on the road but squeezes Eric's knee again, and that's when Eric realize Jack hasn't moved it since they'd left the house. Eric looks at it for a moment, then tentatively covers Jack's hand with his own and squeezes back.

Eric's quiet for a moment. He wants to choose his words carefully. "I don't know what to do when I get there," he says. "I don't know anything about this stuff."

"How'd it happen?" asks Jack softly. He quickly adds, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"No, it's okay," says Eric. "He had a heart attack on the field. Went right down. My cousin said the doctors told Mama that he didn't feel any pain." Eric sits with his chin on his knees and his arms wrapped around himself. "That's somethin' I guess."

Jack hums and signals for the exit to Logan. "How's your mom?"

"A mess," says Eric. "She couldn't even talk. My cousin got on the phone. She's the one who told me." Eric takes a deep breath. "Apparently she's handling my mom until I get there. I owe that girl a berry crumble as soon as possible."

"At least you'll be in a familiar kitchen when you get there," says Jack. "You're always happiest in a kitchen. That'll help you feel better, eh?"

Eric manages to smile weakly at him. "And here I thought you didn't _get_ me, Mister Zimmermann."

Jack nods. "I get you, Bittle," he says quietly. They pull into long-term parking, and Jack finds a spot near the elevators. Eric looks at Jack in confusion and starts to open his mouth, but Jack beats him to it.

"If you want me there," he says gently. "I will come with you. I don't think you should have to do this alone—I know I wouldn't be able to—and I want to help, and if that means getting on a plane and flying to Georgia with you, I will do it. But I won't if you tell me you don't want me there, or need me. Be honest."

Eric starts to tell him to go home, that he's fine, that he can do this, but the words die in his throat.

"Please," is all he manages to say.

That seems to be enough for Jack. "All right," he says. He loops an arm around Eric's shoulders and steers him toward the elevators. "All right."

—

Under different circumstances, Eric would enjoy the hell out of being on a private jet. As it is he lurches on board and sits in the first seat he comes to, dropping into it like a stone. Jack sits across from him and buckles his seatbelt.

"Nice," says Eric, running his thumb along the edge of the window. "Your dad does actually own a jet."

Jack chuckles. "My mom stopped speaking to him for three days because he'd bought it without consulting her. Then she went out and took flying lessons and now she uses it more than he does. She takes it on location sometimes." He kicks off his shoes; Eric knows that Jack actually hates wearing shoes indoors, so any time he can ditch them he does. "He drew the line at letting her have a pinup of him painted on the nose."

Eric smiles. He shrugs out of his hoodie to use as a pillow until Jack stops him.

"There's a little bed back there," he says, pointing toward the rear of the plane. "If you want to take a nap. There's wifi too, for your phone."

"You've got to be kidding me," says Eric, getting up to go look. Sure enough, there's a little alcove across from the mini-fridge and microwave, and in it is a real, honest-to-Betsy bed. There's even mood lighting, which— _oh no._

Eric returns to Jack. "I am _not_ napping anywhere your parents might've joined The Mile High Club!"

Jack blanches. "I've never even thought about that," he says, in a tone that indicates he 'd have been fine not thinking about it forever. "Okay, well. The seats recline all the way. They're probably safe?" He sounds uncertain.

Eric nods and sits back down. Sure enough, the seat does go all the way back, so Eric decides to be rude—extraordinary circumstances—and turtle up under his hoodie. He hears Jack moving around, a whispered conversation, and then the lights in the cabin go blissfully dim. Eric hunches down and shuts his eyes and thinks about the ingredients to a brown butter pumpkin pie. He lays them all out on his (endless, in his mind it's always endless) workspace, and starts to assemble.

He's just about to add sugar to the butter, which is a perfect hue of nut brown, when Jack appears in the doorway, and Eric realizes he's standing in the kitchen of the Haus. Chowder's sitting at the kitchen table, on the phone with Farmer and chowing down on a slice of pecan, and Holster has just stolen the last banana.

"Bittle?" Jack shakes his shoulder.

"What?"

Jack shakes harder. " _Bittle._ "

They aren't in the Haus kitchen. Eric remembers with sudden and unpleasant clarity that he is in fact on a private jet, most likely having just landed in Atlanta in the middle of the night, and his daddy's dead.

"Hey," says Jack softly. "We're here. Let's go, we can rent a car. You'll have to tell me how to get there."

"I'll dri—no, I don't think I'm going to drive," says Eric. Despite the nap he's still flagging. "I'll get you there."

"Sa coche," says Jack. "C'mon, aweille."

Eric trails behind him as they deplane and cross the tarmac. He catches up once they're inside and walking toward the Hertz counter. Twenty minutes later, they're on the road to Madison.

"What time is it?" asks Eric. He doesn't have his phone out and he doesn't feel like moving out of his ball on the passenger seat. "Feels late."

"It's just past two," says Jack. "Definitely late."

Eric peers at him. "How are you awake and _driving—_ you had morning skate at seven this morning! In _Rhode Island!_ "

"I had a Red Bull on the plane while you were asleep."

"Holy smokes," says Eric. "You must be _exhausted_ if you're putting nuclear waste in your body."

Jack rolls his shoulders. He hasn't looked away from the road since Eric asked him the time. "I'm good for now, but I'm going to need sleep once we get there and get things figured out."

"I don't know if our guest room's made up. Mama's been usin' it to store her craft stuff. You can stay in my room. I know we have an air mattress. And there's a Holiday Inn— what am I even thinkin', you don't have to stay at the house—"

"I'm staying wherever you need me to be," says Jack. "I'm gonna need to go to a Target or something, though. I don't have anything with me except my phone and my wallet."

"Jack!" Eric unfolds quickly. "You came down here without _anything?_ "

"Of course I did," says Jack. "I would have had to go back to Providence to pack and we didn't have time for that."

"We could have made time!" Eric shakes his head. "Okay, okay. Target, I can't help you with, the closest one is in the next town over, but we're going to go right past an all-night Walmart."

"Let's get you home, first," says Jack. "We can figure everything out from there. I don't need anything right now, it can wait until morning."

"Okay." Eric fidgets. He's itching to be home already but he also doesn't actually want to get there. He doesn't want to walk in that house knowing his daddy won't ever be there again. He never wants to see the den again, or the grill, or a fucking football. He doesn't want to be in Georgia. He wants to be a million miles away from here.

"Hey." Jack's voice is soft and almost lost to the ambient noise of the car. Eric looks up. "How far do we have to go?"

"Oh." Eric looks out the window. He waits until he spots a landmark. "About another half hour," he says. "Really, the Walmart's going to be _right there,_ so let's at least get you a toothbrush."

Jack smiles. "Always looking out for me, Bittle."

"What? Oh, pff." Eric waves his hand dismissively. "I don't do anything but feed y'all."

"That's not true," says Jack. "You've made that Haus a home. I miss it like a limb."

Eric doesn't know what to do with this new information. "Jack, I—Wow. That's—"

Jack's not done. "Shitty says the same thing, I saw him a week ago and the first thing he said was that his kitchen is depressing without you in it." He doesn't look away from the road. "Mine, too."

Eric is speechless. He knows, in some abstract way, that he's had a positive influence on the Haus because that's just who he tries to be. But he didn't know it would be the kind of thing that would leave such an impact. If anything he would like to leave a decently-sized mark on his friends' lives, but here's Jack telling him he didn't just make an impact, he left a crater. It's too much for Eric to process. He covers his face with his hands and breathes.

Jack misreads it, of course. "Sorry, sorry," he says quickly. "I just—I thought it would help. Knowing how much we all love you."

Eric's heart _seizes;_  he wonders if this is how his daddy'd felt right before he hit the ground.

"Thanks, Jack," he manages to say. He's quiet for the rest of the way to their exit.

—

It's way too bright inside the Walmart and busier than it should be for 3am in a town of roughly three thousand people. Night-owls doing their weekly shop pick their way around the stockers unloading pallets of stuff like frozen pizzas and bananas and Hostess Cupcakes. Eric them steers away from the grocery aisles and heads for toiletries.

"Toothbrush," says Jack, plucking one off the shelf at random. "Check. I should probably get some underwear and socks, and maybe some shorts or something, eh?"

"You do you," says Eric, sagging against the cart as though it's the only thing holding him up (it is). That nap on the plane was definitely not enough. "Get some protein bars, I don't know what the food situation is like at the house right now."

"Aye aye." Jack salutes him and trundles down the aisle ahead while Eric pushes the buggy and wonders if he could just climb inside and sleep, and would Jack notice.

Once Jack has some supplies and a little backpack to put them in they get back on the road, with Eric calling out directions and Jack doing his level best not to hit anything when Eric tells him to turn left a little just a little too late, or to keep going straight until the second light when he means the first.

"Sorry," says Eric. "I just—I know this by heart. I never give people directions." He yawns huge. "I'm trying, Jack."

"We'll get there," says Jack. "Use Siri."

"Ugh," says Eric, dutifully waking up his phone. "She's the worst. She takes people by the middle school and you do _not_ need to go that far out of the way to get to our house."

"Just supplement her directions with your own. Between the two of you, we'll get there eventually."

"You're not funny."

"I'm a little funny."

As they get closer to the house, Eric is so, so grateful that Jack had insisted on coming with him. He would still be sitting at Logan right now, or not even there at all because airline ticket prices would be astronomical on short notice. No, he would have had to borrow someone's car, probably Shitty's, and he'd be somewhere in Pennsylvania right now, miserable and alone and exhausted with miles yet to go instead of pulling into his street the way he is now. He can see that someone has forgotten to turn off the porch light; his daddy had always done that right before going to bed.

His parents' cars are in the driveway and there's one out front so Jack has to park a little ways down the street. Eric grabs his backpack and doesn't wait for Jack, just bolts for the front door and lets himself in. "Hello?" he calls out quietly. "Mama? Gracie Mae?"

There's movement behind him. A very sleepy Gracie Mae appears from the living room, her dark hair one big tangle on one side and a blanket wrapped around her. "Hey, Short Stuff," she says softly.

"You are one inch taller than me." Eric flings his arms around her. "I'm so glad to see you."

Her arms come up around him. "You too, I—wait, what the fuck." She grabs him by the shoulders. "I just told you on the phone, like, this afternoon," she says. "How the hell are you here already?"

"I had help," he says, as Jack comes in. He's got the Walmart bags that he puts on the kitchen table. He gives a little wave. "This is Jack, my friend from school. He got me here."

"Nice to meet you," says Jack, offering his hand. "In spite of the circumstances."

"Hi," says Gracie Mae, a little breathlessly. Eric can see in her eyes every single question she's going to bombard him with once they're alone. She takes Jack's hand and gives it a shake, and almost makes it weird by not letting go right away. She does eventually, and Jack laughs a little. "Well, uh. Thank you kindly for gettin' Di—Eric here so fast."

"Of course," says Jack. "He'd do the same for any of us. We've got his back."

Eric sighs a little and gives Jack what probably looks like bedroom eyes but he's really just exhausted. "Do we need to go get a hotel?" he asks Gracie Mae.

"Nah," she says. "I'm on the couch. Your mama's been in the guest room bed and won't leave it. Your room's still free, though. Y'all need the air mattress?"

Eric nods and they spring into action, Eric hitting a second wind long enough to help Gracie Mae find more blankets and set the mattress up on his floor.

"You're getting the bed," says Eric. Jack's hovering nearby with linens in his arms. "You get your dad to send a _jet,_ you get the bed."

"I won't argue," says Jack with a sleepy smile. "You win this one."

"Finally," says Eric under his breath. He helps Jack make up the air mattress and then puts out the light and climbs in, listening to Jack settle in a few feet away. When the rustle of sheets and blankets go quiet the room fills with the sounds of crickets and their breathing.

"Jack?"

"Mmm?" He can hear Jack moving, probably rolling over. Eric shifts as well until he's looking toward the bed. He can just make out Jack's shadow in the dim light creeping between the blinds. "Sleep, Bittle."

"No, I know, I just—" Eric is having trouble finding the right words.

"Thank you," he says at length. It doesn't really convey the scope of his gratitude, but he'll to say it anyway.

"Mmm." Jack rustles again. Eric's eyes have adjusted enough that he can see Jack smiling at him through the dark. "Rest up, Bittle."

Eric smirks and closes his eyes. "Goodnight, Jack."

—

Eric wakes too early the next morning. He casts about blindly for his phone before his head's even up off the pillow. He's about to check the time when he remembers where he is, and why.

He suddenly feels so queasy that he grabs his trash can and leans over it, just in case. It takes a long few minutes for the nausea to subside and Eric can push the can away, sit all the way up, and check his phone. It's just after ten-thirty and the house is completely silent. Eric looks over at his empty bed before sliding off the air mattress and dressing quickly before venturing downstairs. He finds Gracie Mae and Jack sitting at the kitchen table, nursing coffees as Jack shows Gracie Mae something on his phone. Jack spots him first.

"Hey," he says, smiling. "How do you feel?"

"Mmmng." Without thinking Eric grabs Jack's coffee and takes a big swig. It's black, which is terrible, but it's enough to make Eric open his eyes all the way. "Oh." He looks into the empty mug and then at Jack. "Sorry. I'll get you another one."

"I'm good," says Jack. "You need it more."

Gracie Mae hands Jack his phone. "You take amazing photos," she says. "The ones of Di—dammit, Eric—these are _really_ good."

"Pictures of me?" Eric fills Jack's mug—now his apparently—with coffee and cream and turns to lean back against the counter. "Why me?"

Jack shrugs, and Eric realizes that he's blushing _._ He's seen him red-faced and sweaty after a good skate and flushed from the hottest shower in the locker room, but Eric has never seen Jack Zimmermann  _blush_. "You're photogenic," he says, scratching the back of his head. He looks a little shifty-eyed, Eric can't figure out why. "I can stop if it bothers you."

"No," says Eric. "It's fine. But I'd like to see them sometime."

"Can do," says Jack, with a tentative little smile that Eric returns.

"Eric," says Gracie Mae. "You should go up to your mama. She'll be real happy to see you."

"Yeah." Eric stares down into his coffee cup. "Working myself up to it. Has she eaten anything?"

"No." Gracie Mae sighs. "Not since breakfast yesterday, I think. She called my mom from the hospital and we had to go get her 'cause she couldn't drive at all. Javi went and picked up her car after."

"Eric," says Jack, and Eric is never going to be used to hearing his first name in Jack's voice. "Are you okay?"

Eric looks up. "What? Me?" he says, and Gracie Mae gets up and comes over and wraps her arms around him. "Hey, um?"

"I keep forgetting," she says, holding him tight. "We fuss over your mama but nobody's fussin' over you."

Eric sags against her, setting his mug down and clinging back. "I'm ok," he says into her hair. "I'm doin' fine. Jack's been fussin' enough for the whole family."

"Hey," says Jack.

"So long as someone's doin' it," says Gracie Mae, pulling away. "Go talk to your Mama. I'll make her somethin' to eat and we'll see if we can't get her going."

"Yep." Eric takes both her hands and holds them in his for a moment before he drops them. He pours his mother her own cup of coffee, the way she likes it, and heads upstairs. The guest room door is closed. He knocks gently. "Mama?"

There's no answer, which probably means she's asleep. He carefully opens the door and peers inside. "Mama?"

The lump on the bed moves slowly. "Dicky?" Eric opens the door a little more and the light from the hallway falls over the bed as his mother sits up. "Oh, Dicky?"

"Yes, Mama," says Eric. He steps all the way into the room and shuts the door behind him, quickly setting the coffees on the nightstand and all but throwing himself into the bed and into her arms.

"Oh God, Dicky," says his mother as she grabs onto him and holds on so tight it's painful. It's okay, though, Eric's holding her just as hard. "He's _gone,_ " she wails.

Eric squeezes his eyes shut. "I know, Mama. I know." He pets her hair. "I know."

"What am I going to do?" she sobs harder. "I miss him so much. Dicky, I miss him _so much._ "

"Me too," says Eric. He takes a deep, shaky breath, fully prepared to cry. He doesn't. He wonders if he's broken, the grief has been shocked right out of him, but as he clutches his mother's quaking body he thinks this might be a blessing. Someone has to be functional, and since his mother's completely out of commission it's up to him to get things taken care of, to take care of her.

"Mama," says Eric. "I brought you coffee. Please drink some." She moans and won't let go, and Eric tries to pry her free. "Mama, come into the kitchen. Gracie Mae's here, and Jack—"

She pulls back enough to look at him. "Jack? Jack is here?" She's red-eyed and snotty and bedraggled and Eric can see her confusion. "Why?"

"He got me here," says Eric. "He helped me get here. I'll tell you all about it, but you have to get up."

His mother slumps. "I can't," she whimpers. "I just—Dicky, what am I going to _do?_ "

Eric takes her by the shoulders. "You're going to get out of bed and come sit with us in the kitchen. Gracie Mae's making breakfast."

"But—"

"Mama." Eric pulls her in for another hug. "One thing at a time. Get up and have something to eat. You don't have to eat a lot, just get something in your belly, okay?" Eric gets up. "I'm going to get your robe, okay? Do you want your slippers, too?"

"Yes," she nods. She glances at the nightstand. "One of those is mine?"

Eric smiles and hands her the chipped mug she loves so much, the one that looks like a cat with the tail as the handle. She sniffs it and takes a drink. "You still know how to make it right," she says softly.

"Of course I do," says Eric. "I'll be right back, okay?"

He leaves her clinging to her coffee mug like a lifeline and goes to his parents' bedroom. He opens the door without even thinking about it, finding his mother's robe on the end of the unmade bed. He turns to go and stops cold. There are his daddy's shoes, left haphazardly on the floor the way his mother hates. His belts hang from a hook on the closet door. There's a copy of SI fallen on the floor by the bed, as though he'd fallen asleep reading it. And for reasons Eric will likely never know, there's an actual football on the dresser, nestled in his mother's collection of candles.

Eric looks at these things and then sits on the bed for a moment. He clutches the robe in his hand, then bends forward with his head between his knees, biting his fist so he won't scream. He stays like that for a full minute before the urge passes and he's able to sit up and bring his mother her robe.

"Hi, Aunt Suzie," says Gracie Mae when Eric and his mother appear in the kitchen. His mother immediately sits at the table with her head in her hands. "Do you want some toast?"

Eric answers before she can even open her mouth. "Yes, she does," says Eric. "Mama, eat something."

"Don't boss me around," she says wearily, there's no bite to it. "I'm fine."

Eric sighs but says nothing. He helps Gracie Mae get the eggs and toast on the table, and takes over for the biscuits and sausages so that she can sit down and eat. Eric's only vaguely hungry; he doesn't really want to eat but he'd be a hypocrite if he lectured his mother about toast and then skipped breakfast himself. He fixes himself a small plate and sits between Jack and his mother.

"Jack," she says, nibbling on her toast. She'd put jam on it, which Eric sees as a good sign. "Thank you for bringing Dicky home."

"I'm glad to have been able to do it," says Jack, pushing his eggs around. "My parents send their condolences. I hope you don't mind that I gave them your address. They want to send something."

"Oh, for goodness sake, they don't have to do that." Eric's mother sniffles, she sounds like she's constantly on the verge of tears. "But thank you." She finishes one piece of toast and looks surprised about it. "Oh. I guess I was hungry."

Eric nods. "See? Eat the other piece."

Gracie Mae, mouth full of eggs and sausage, points a fork at Eric. "Okay, so _how_ did you get here so fast? Seriously."

Jack speaks before Eric has a chance to swallow his bite of biscuit. "My dad has a plane," he tells Gracie Mae. "He was happy to let us use it."

Eric's mother almost knocks over her coffee. "He sent a _plane_ for Dicky?"

"It's not a big deal." Eric ducks his head and doesn't look at Jack. "Jack's dad is just a really nice person," he says. "He'd do it for any of Jack's friends." Jack coughs into his hand and Eric sighs and pats his arm. "I'm going to bake you a thousand pies, don't worry."

"Well, gosh," says his mother, looking like she might cry again. "Jack, that's so—That's so gracious. Please tell him thank you for me."

Jack smiles at her. "I will," he says gently. "And I didn't say this before and I should have, but if there's anything else you need please let me know. I can help."

Eric's mother does burst into tears. She almost knocks over her chair in her effort to get to Jack and throw her arms around his neck. He manages to both save his breakfast and catch her at the same time, and for a long moment he hugs her, rubbing her back with his hand. Eric understands why she stays there for so long—Jack's hugs are huge, warm, and endlessly comforting. They are Reason #257 why Eric loves cellies.

Gracie Mae takes her plate to the sink. "Listen, now that you're here I'm going to go home and shower and change, and check in with Mom. You gonna be okay?"

Eric nods. Jack and his mother have separated and are now having a quiet conversation Eric can't quite make out. "Yeah," he says to Gracie Mae. "Hang on, I'll follow you out."

Once Gracie Mae has her bag Eric walks her out to her car. "Um," he says. "Can I ask you something?"

Gracie Mae chucks her bag in the backseat. "Yeah, shoot?"

Eric leans against her car. "Where is he?"

"Oh. Um. Still at Morgan," says Gracie Mae. "They, um. He was an organ donor, so."

"Yeah." Eric nods. "Okay." He looks at her. "Where do I even start?"

Gracie Mae shrugs. "Your guess is as good as mine," she says. She pulls him into a hug. "You know that funeral home on Burney? Call them up. I bet they'd be real helpful. They did Peepaw's funeral, remember?"

Eric pulls away. "That's a good idea," he says. "Okay. I'll do that first."

"No," says Gracie Mae. "First you're going to take a shower, because you smell funny. You're going to go finish your breakfast. And then you're going to bake something."

"Excuse me, Miss Gracie Mae, I don't have time to—"

"You _always_ have time. Do it. It's your best coping method."

Eric glares. "You are the sister I never wanted."

Gracie Mae laughs. "I love you too, Short Stuff." She gets in her car and rolls down the window. "Call me if you need anything, a break, someone to go to the store—though I think you've got that covered by your goddamn hunk boyfriend, Jee-hee-zus, Dicky!"

"He's not my boyfriend," says Eric. He's never come out directly to Gracie Mae but she's seen his wandering eye and she is no fool. "He's my friend."

Gracie Mae raises an unkempt eyebrow. "For now."

Eric smacks his hand on the roof of her car. "Goodbye!"

She blows him a kiss as she pulls away. Eric stands there for a moment, looking around the neighborhood. It's a nice day, deceptively nice. He can see a few of the neighbors—Daphne watering her yard while her dog Rufus digs in the flowerbeds, Mr. Harvey getting the mail, Ken the UPS driver making his way down the block. It's nice, it's normal. Eric has had a thousand days just like this one since moving to Madison. Even after two years away up north, it feels like nothing's changed—he closes his eyes and breathes in and he's fourteen, sitting on the front porch, drinking sweet tea and reading Lemony Snicket.

And yet there is a huge hole, a massive unbreachable canyon cutting right down the center of his reverie. His daddy isn't there. He's not mowing the lawn or dragging the grill out of the garage. He's not chatting with Mr. Duncan across the street about fishing or whatever they used to talk about. He's not sitting with Eric on the porch with a beer in his hand, going over plays with him; as much as Eric disliked football, he and his daddy sure used to talk about it a lot.

_Used to._

When Eric returns to the kitchen he finds Jack and his mother washing up the breakfast dishes. They haven't spotted him yet so he hovers in the doorway, just watching for a moment.

"I've never been in a private jet before," she says, handing him a wet plate that he takes and rubs down with a towel. He seems to know where everything goes, which makes Eric's heart hurt. "Is it nice?"

"Dad's plane is pretty cool," he says. "I was telling Eric before that my mom flies it more than he does."

Eric's mother gasps. "You're tellin' me that your mama flies that plane around?"

"Yes, ma'am," says Jack, and Eric delights in the faintest little twang in his accent. "She got her pilot's license when I was in high school."

"Well, isn't that something," says his mother, scrubbing one of the coffee mugs. "Your mama is some kinda lady."

"She is," says Jack. "You'll like her when you meet her."

Eric swallows at the _when._

"Well, your folks are welcome here any time." His mother turns off the water and dries her hands. She turns around and jumps a little. "Dicky, you scared me! I am gonna hang a bell around your neck one of these days!"

Eric beams. "That sounds more like my mama," he says. He ruffles her hair. "You should take a shower," he says. "You'll feel better."

"You should, too," she says, wrinkling her nose. "Both of you."

"You first," says Eric. "C'mon, Mama, go on."

He gets her upstairs, gathers her clothes for her so she won't have to go into her bedroom, and leaves her to shower in his bathroom. He has a feeling his parents' bathroom is off-limits for a while.

Jack's still in the kitchen when Eric gets back, fiddling with his phone. "Hey," says Eric.

"Hey," Jack immediately pockets his phone. "She good?"

"Yeah." Eric exhales long and slow and runs a hand over his face. "Lord, there's so much to do and I don't know how to do any of it."

"Your mom seems like she's doing better," says Jack. "She can probably do more than you think."

"How _did_ you do that?" Eric asks. "She's been a zombie all morning."

Jack smirks. "I started talking about my dad," he says. "That seemed to do the trick."

"Oh, that woman is _shameless._ " Eric shakes his head and looks at Jack. "You pulled the Bad Bob card? For her?"

"It worked, didn't it?" Jack puts a hand on Eric's shoulder and squeezes. "Still hanging in there?"

Eric nods. "Yeah, just… It's a lot."

"I can help," says Jack. "Look." He pulls his phone out again. "I don't know anything about this either so I looked it up on my phone. I found a funeral home website that had a checklist of what to do."

"Oh, that's helpful," says Eric, peering at the screen.

Jack keeps his hand on his shoulder. "Hey, Bittle."

Eric looks up. "What?"

"You sure you're okay?" asks Jack softly.

"I am," says Eric dismissively. "I'm fine."

Jack doesn't seem convinced, and if Eric's honest with himself he isn't either, but they have bigger problems right now than how Eric feels. "I'm really okay," says Eric, patting Jack's bicep. "You can stop worrying. We're gonna get washed up and then I'm gonna get my laptop and we'll start figuring stuff out. When Mama's done she can sit with us and help as much as she can. Deal?"

Jack nods. "Deal," he says. There's still reluctance in his tone but Eric chooses to ignore it in favor of ascending the stairs to find his laptop.

—

The checklist helps a lot. Eric calls the hospital for an update on his dad's status and makes arrangements for him to be transported to the funeral home that had handled his grandfather's death a few years ago. They know Eric's mother—the owner is Moomaw's neighbor—which will make it easier on her if she doesn't have to deal with strangers. By midday they have an appointment at the mortuary for tomorrow.

Calling the family is harder. His mother tries, but she ends up sobbing on the phone to Eric's uncle and he has to take it away from her. She curls up in a ball on the couch while Eric makes the calls and Jack talks to Georgia about missing a few games "due to a death in the family".

"I don't like you lying to your team," says Eric when Jack's hung up. "You need to go back."

"I wasn't lying." Jack looks confused. "And they're fine with it. Snowy was gone for a week when his grandmother died, eh?"

"Yeah, but my dad wasn't related to you."

Jack shrugs. "Feels like he was," he says. Eric has no idea what to do with that, so he goes back to calling the rest of family. He doesn't manage to get everybody, but he knows word will spread, and by dinnertime half the county will be on their porch with fried chicken and buckets of mac and cheese.

"How's Moomaw?" asks Eric. His mother's sitting on the couch and staring out of the window. "Mama?"

"Moomaw?" She looks at him blankly for a moment and then shakes her head as if to clear it. "Sorry, honey," she says. "Moomaw's at Bill and Rosa's, she's stayin' with them for a little while."

Eric winces. "I need to call her," he says. "Or go over there. She'll never forgive me if I've been in Madison for more than 24 hours without seeing her." He looks at Jack. "Could you stay here and look after Mama?"

"I don't need a babysitter," says his mother with a huff. "I want to go back to bed, anyway."

"Mama—"

"Don't, Dicky," she says softly. "I just want to sleep for a while."

Eric hesitates. He looks at Jack as if to say _do something._

"Suzanne," says Jack, and Eric is _so grateful_ he and Jack seem to operate on the same wavelength even off the ice. "I'm pretty worn out too, I think I'll stay here with you anyway, eh?" Jack gives her a little smile and Eric _swears_ can hear his mother's heart explode. Or maybe that's his. Either way, that smile is devastating and Jack is dangerous when he remembers to use it.

"Of course, honey," she says. Eric almost rolls his eyes. "We'll both nap and Dicky can go see Moomaw."

Eric grins at Jack over her head and mouths  _thanks_ before he gets up. "I'll be back in a little while," he says. "Do you want anything while I'm out?"

His mother looks up at him. "Can you bring home dinner?" she says. "Pizza? I really want pizza." His daddy had loved pizza. "With extra pepperoni."

"I can do that," he says. "Jack, I know it's not on your diet plan. I could make you something instead?"

Jack smiles. "I think I can throw my diet plan out the window for some pizza—especially pizza with extra protein." He winks.

"You think you're so cute," says Eric. "Mama, you're a terrible influence on him." He pecks the top of her head and just manages to stop himself before he does it to Jack, as well. "I'll be back."

Eric takes his mother's car to his aunt and uncle's rather than the rental; he knows her car better and the rental is an _Audi_ because Jack is _that_ extra and Eric does not dare drive a car that nice.

He didn't even consider taking his dad's truck.

The drive to Auntie Rosa and Uncle Bill's is usually pretty short—most of the Phelps and Bittles live within a 10-mile radius of each other—but he takes the long way so that he doesn't have to go by the high school. He's not ready for that.

He keeps his eyes on the road and wonders if he'll ever be.

—

"Dicky!" Auntie Rosa opens the door and immediately envelopes Eric in her arms and bosom. "Oh, I am so happy to see you!"

"Hi," he says, struggling for air. "It's me, yes, I'm here!"

She releases him and steps back, holding him by the biceps. "You haven't grown an inch since goin' off north! What are they feeding you up there?"

Eric groans. "I feed myself, mostly, but I can't say much for the dining hall fare." He peers around her. "Where's Uncle Bill?"

Her face falls. "Every since your mama told us about Rick he's been in a sorry state. He's out fishin' with Javi, they'll be out 'till sundown. I didn't think it'd be good for him since he an' Rick been fishin' together damn near their whole lives, but I since they haven't come back yet it's either goin' real well or he's in a bar somewhere and Javi went to the movies. Either way, they're out of my hair. C'mon in, I'm making dinner so you can take some home to your mama, poor thing. Can't imagine she's up for cookin' anything right now—oh!"

"Oh?" Eric had zoned out a little, her softly accented chatter filling his head with a comfortable familiarity. Auntie Rosa's the only person other than Eric's mother who can keep up with him in a conversation, though today he doesn't really feel like participating. He's fine, just tired.

" _Oh Dicky,_ " she says, hugging him again. "I'm so sorry, goin' on and on when you just lost your daddy. You doin' okay?"

Eric nods. "I'm fine," he says. "Takin' care of Mama, figuring out everything that needs doing."

"You need any help you let us know, you hear me?"

"I will!" Eric manages to free himself. "Mama's getting better, and I've got Gracie Mae and Jack—"

"Who is Jack?" She drags him into the house and shuts the door. "Is that one of your daddy's people?"

"No, he's my friend from school. He got me here." Eric closes his eyes and takes a deep breath; the house smells so _good._ "Oh, won't you please give me your recipe for this?"

"Not on your life," she says. She stops in the hall. "Y'wanna see her?"

"Yeah," says Eric. "How is she?"

Auntie Rosa winces. "Not great, mijo," she says. "She fell right down when we told her. She's alright, but she's been mostly sleepin' since."

"I'll see what I can do," says Eric. "Want me to bring anything in to her?"

Auntie Rosa loads him down with a big bowl of soup and some sweet tea and sends him down the hall to Javier's room; Eric thinks that if Moomaw's holed up in there poor Javi must be on the couch. He knocks before he lets himself in, just in case she's sleeping. She's not, she's sitting up and staring blankly at the TV and what looks like a Law & Order rerun. "Moomaw?"

She jumps a little and looks over. "Dicky?" Her empty expression lights right up. "Oh, is that my little Dicky-bird?"

"It is," he says, shutting the door and coming over. He clears some space off on the nightstand and sets down the bowl and the tea. "Auntie Rosa sent me in with food that you, Miss Thing, are going to eat."

"Don't you sass me," she says without heat. "Get over here and sit with me while I eat whatever it is your Auntie's forcin' on me this time."

Eric rolls his eyes. "Hush your face, you love her cookin'," he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed and handing her the bowl and a spoon. "Eat up!"

She glares at him but takes a bite. "You take after your mama so much," she says. "When did you get here?"

"Last night," he says. "Real late, or I'd have come to see you sooner. Had to get Mama out of bed and some food into her, too." He rests a hand on her blanketed foot. "How you doin'?"

She swallows a mouthful of soup. "Oh, baby," she says sadly. "Parents ain't supposed to bury their children, even when their children don't belong to 'em. I loved your daddy like he was one of my own, you know that."

He smiles. "I know," he says. "And he loved you somethin' fierce."

His grandmother puts the bowl aside and pulls him to her. "Oh, honey," she says, and she's crying into his hair. He holds on and lets her weep softly against him. He rubs her back until she quiets down and they just lean on each other, breathing in sync.

"What are we gonna do, Dicky?" she whimpers. "This is as bad as when I lost your grandaddy."

"And you survived that," he says. "You'll get through this, too. We all will." He pats her on the shoulder and kisses her papery cheek. "Funeral's probably on Friday, so you gotta be up and movin' by then, you got that?"

"Yes, sir," she says. For the first time since he'd come in she looks him over. "Goodness, but it's good to see you, sugar," she says. "You ain't grown any, though."

"Good lord, y'all need to stop, I'm a normal size!" He shakes his head. "I'm gonna see if I can get Mama in the car later and bring her by, okay? I think you two need to be together."

"That sounds fine," she says. "I need my girl."

"And your girl needs her mama," he says. "I'm gonna get on home. I need to feed her and Jack, and—"

"So this Jack," she says, one silver eyebrow raised. "Is this the Jack you're always goin' on about on the phone?"

"That's him!" Eric beams. "He woulda come with me to see you but I set him lookin' after Mama instead. You'll see him later."

"Is he handsome?" she asks. "I bet he's handsome."

Eric pulls out his phone and thumbs through his photo album until he finds a good picture. "Here," he says, showing her one of Jack that Lardo had taken with his phone last week. They're out in the Reading Room on a sunny afternoon between classes and the blue of Jack's eyes is the same as the sky. It's the contact photo for Jack on Eric's phone. "That's him."

She peers at the screen. "The Lord was certainly kind to that boy," she says. "They do grow 'em up nice up north, I suppose."

"Canada," says Eric, putting his phone away. "Jack's from Montreal. You'll love his accent—it's sort of French but not really."

"Can't wait to meet him," she says. "Any young man of my Dicky's has got to be a good egg." She swats his leg. "Now get, go on home and take care of your mama. Your ol' Moomaw's gonna be fine. I have faced trials of many kinds and the Good Lord knows what I can handle."

"I believe it." He kisses her forehead. "You be good. I'll come see you again tomorrow, and you'd better be out of this bed. Javi needs his room back."

"Get," she says again, but she smiles at him before she picks up the remote and turns the TV back on. He's relieved to see her switch from Law & Order to the news. Moomaw yelling at the TV is better than her blankly staring off into middle distance, though he knows it's gonna catch up with her again. Still, any distraction is good for as long as it lasts.

It isn't until he's halfway to the pizza place with a tupperware of Auntie Rosa's chiles en nogada cooling on the passenger seat when he remembers something Moomaw had said and nearly drives off the road.

_Any young man of my Dicky's._

—

He almost forgets dinner completely, driving right past the pizza place and having to go around the block again. He does manage to remember the extra pepperoni, but as soon as he's driving home his mind starts racing again. _She knows_. How does she know? How did she find out? _What_ does she know? Has she told his mother? Does Mama know?

_Did his daddy know?_

He's a basket case when he gets home but he pauses on the front porch and schools his expression until he's smiling mostly sincerely before letting himself in the house. "Anyone home?" he calls out.

Jack appears almost instantly. "Your mother's asleep on the sofa,' he says quietly. "I can wake her if you want?"

"Nah," says Eric. "I can warm this up for her later. Let her sleep." He carries the pizzas and the Tupperware into the kitchen and puts it all on the counter. "Can you get plates? They're over the—"

"'Got 'em," says Jack, opening the cupboard over the microwave. Eric marvels, and it must be obvious because Jack catches him looking and his ears turn a little red. "I was paying attention before."

"I didn't say a word," says Eric with a smile as he puts the Tupperware in the fridge. "But I will say that I am impressed because you can never remember where the Haus colander is."

"That's because it keeps ending up in Shitty's room." Jack opens a pizza box and loads his plate up with four slices. "I don't know why."

"Uh, remind me to buy a new one—and hide it," says Eric, making a face. He get himself two slices of pizza and pours two sweet teas, handing one to Jack. They sit at the table and for a few minutes they don't talk, they just chow down on their pizza. Eric's hungrier than he'd been aware.

"How was your grandmother?" asks Jack once he's finished his first slice. "Is she okay?"

Eric shrugs. "Grievin' pretty hard, but she's a cranky old thing and she's gonna be fine." Eric takes a big gulp of tea. "She thinks you're handsome."

"Well." Jack shakes his head but he's laughing softly. "She knows what I look like, eh?"

"I may have shown her a picture or two," says Eric. "She's nosy." He starts in on his second slice. "Jack, you really don't have to stay. Is the jet still here? You could go home."

"Are you trying to get rid of me, Bittle?" Jack's voice sounds playful but when Eric looks at him he can see genuine uncertainty. "I'm happy to stay, but only if you need me."

_I need you. Of course I need you._

Eric gets up for another slice. Jack's already through three, so when Eric grabs one out of the box he gets an extra one and drops it on Jack's plate without a word.

"It is pretty nice having an extra pair of hands around," he says as he sits back down. "You're good at wrangling Mama."

"Whatever I can do," says Jack. "But on one condition."

Eric frowns. "What's that?"

Jack gestures at him with his slice. "You're going to show me your baby pictures," he says, taking a bite.

"The hell I will," cries Eric. "That's a terrible trade!"

"Works out pretty well for me," says Jack merrily. "I get to stay _and_ I get to see Baby Bittle."

Eric scowls. "I hate you," he grumbles. "See if I make you another pie _ever_ in your life."

Jack grins and takes another bite.

"What's all the fuss?" says Eric's mother as she wanders into the kitchen looking rumpled but at least a little more rested. "Dicky, what is all this hollerin' in here?"

"I asked for baby pictures," says Jack, and Eric throws a crumpled up paper towel at him.

"Traitor!"

"Oh," says his mother, reverently. "I have so many pictures, Jack. Dicky was the  _cutest_ baby."

"I can imagine," says Jack. He's still smiling and it's becoming more and more smug by the minute. "He's seen mine, so it's only fair."

His mother gets a slice of pizza and without even bothering for a plate takes an enormous bite. "This is so good," she mumbles through her mouthful, and Eric doesn't think he's seen his mother violate so many rules of Southern etiquette ever before in his life. "Jack, I will show you ever baby picture I've ever taken of him if you want," she says.

"Mother!"

"I would like that, Suzanne," says Jack, and Eric throws his hands in the air. There's no point in even trying to reason with her if Jack's going to lay it on _that_ thick. He's just no match for that smile (and that butt). As they retire to the living room and his mother fetches the albums, Eric resigns himself to an evening of crippling embarrassment, but if it makes his mama happy he'll endure it. He will sit there and keep his damn mouth shut, no matter how mortifying it is, just to see her smile.

"Look, here's where Dicky's covered himself in chocolate frosting!"

He's right. It's definitely mortifying.

—

The three days before the funeral pass by so quickly Eric's sure he's imagined them. As predicted, there is a staggering amount of food from friends and neighbors and other well-wishers. Eric has to enlist the aid of Auntie Rosa and Aunt Judy's fridges in order to preserve it all for the reception, because there's no way they can eat all of it themselves. Eric bakes up a storm to use up the rest of his nervous energy, until there is at least one pie or scone or cookie on every single surface of the kitchen.

"I'm going to get more butter," says Jack on Wednesday afternoon. "Tell me where the store is, eh?"

"How did you know I need more?"

"Hunch."

The day before the funeral, Eric and Jack end up at Goody's to look for something appropriate to wear. They end up in nearly matching outfits: white shirts with dark ties and nice pants. They even have to buy loafers, since Eric doesn't have his with him and Jack's only got his awful yellow running shoes.

"Pastor Donald would roll over in his grave if you wore those to church."

"Isn't he conducting the service?"

"Hush."

The morning of the funeral dawns overcast but warm and blessedly not too humid. Jack drives Eric and his mother to the church. It's tastefully decorated with more flowers than Eric's seen at some weddings, and even though they're early nearly half the town is there already. His daddy's players, both current and past, his coworkers, friends from high school and college, the church is full to standing-room only. Eric wonders if any of the businesses downtown are closed so that people can attend. He wouldn't be surprised; Madison, obviously, loved Coach Rick Bittle.

Eric's mother starts to cry before the service even begins. Eric helps Aunt Judy lead Moomaw to her seat next to his mother. He sits on her other side, with Jack next to him.

"Thank you," he whispers, leaning into Jack's space for a moment. "For being here."

Jack bumps him with his shoulder. "Got your back," he replies.

Eric nods. "Yeah," he says, a little breathless with a sudden and near-devastating swell of love for this man that, for the moment, isn't bittersweet. It's just pure blinding affection. "You do, don't you."

Pastor Donald gives a sermon that, despite Eric's extremely complicated feelings about religion, is probably very moving and meaningful, but all Eric can think of is years of Sundays spent in this very pew, his daddy next to him making jokes about Pastor Dan's bald spot that is shaped like a football. Eric remembers trying not to laugh to the point where he'd have to run for the bathroom to let himself giggle. Eric doesn't remember a lick of any sermon Pastor Donald's ever given, but he remembers every one of his daddy's jokes; he can almost feel them being whispered into his ear as Pastor Donald goes on.

Morgan County High School's star quarterback gets up to say a few words, and then Uncle Bill—his daddy's best friend; Eric's mother is Uncle Bill's little sister—who tears up about halfway through and has to be led back to his seat by Auntie Rosa. Eric's glad he escaped having to speak, his mama didn't ask him to and he didn't offer, even though it was probably expected of him to get up and say something. He's not sure of what he'd say, anyway. _Hi y'all. My daddy was my hero but I'm gay and probably a disappointment. Thanks for coming._

And then suddenly it's all over. Jack's up helping Eric's mother and then Moomaw out of the pew, with Moomaw, despite her tears, looking a little starry-eyed as Jack takes her hand. Eric follows them all as they make their way slowly out of the church. The clouds have parted and there's blue sky overhead; Eric looks up and smiles into the sunlight.  _Hi, Daddy,_ he thinks, and he feels warm on the inside for the first time in days.

Jack and Eric drive to the cemetery in the rental and his mother and Moomaw follow with Uncle Bill and Auntie Rosa and Javi. They beat the hearse there, so everyone mills around reading tombstones and chatting in low tones with various family members. Eric's worried about exposing Jack to every Bittle in the South, but he seems to be taking it in stride. He chats with Eric's aunts and uncles and cousins, and only needs rescuing when Eric's cousin Javi recognizes him.

"Hey, are you—"

"Jack?" Eric swoops up and takes him by the elbow. "Sorry, Javi. I need to borrow him." He ushers Jack away to over by one of the bigger floral arrangements. "He's a sweetheart but he can talk your ear off _,_ and I figured maybe you'd rather not be _Jack Zimmermann, Falconer_ right now."

"Thanks," says Jack. "Yeah, I couldn't think of a polite way to escape."

"I usually shove pies at people and run," says Eric. "Works for me, anyway." He sighs. "You probably have to sit behind me," he says reluctantly. "Mama and I are up front with my dad's sister and brothers."

"It's okay," says Jack. "I don't mind."

When the hearse arrives, Eric swallows hard when they bring out the casket and set it up on the risers. His daddy's in there, he thinks. He's in there and he's dead and he's not coming back and Eric will _never see him again._ He wants to throw open the casket for one last look, but he knows better. He needs to remember his dad being alive; he doesn't need the image of his dead father burned into his retinas for the rest of his life.

Next to him, his mother starts to cry quietly. Eric takes her hand and squeezes.

"I got you," he whispers. "I've got you, Mama."

The service (Eric's not sure why they needed another one, but at least this one isn't religious) is short, the way his daddy would have liked. It's just few words for people who weren't at the church; the quarterback's sister gets up and sings the Bulldogs fight song, and one of his dad's cousins, Eric isn't sure who he is exactly, tells a funny story about how Eric's daddy had started a fight at a roller rink when they were kids.

"Someone insulted the Falcons," he says. "Rick couldn't abide that, so he jes' decked the son-of-a-gun. Then he bought the fella a beer. That's the kind of guy Rick was—he'd sure let you have it if you were bein' a jerk, but he never held a grudge. He always came around, and then he'd end up the best friend you'd ever had."

Eric has never heard this story, and he's suddenly gripped with _fury_ that he hadn't known, that he'd never thought to ask his dad for his stories instead of waiting for him to tell them. How many stories will Eric miss out on? How much about his father is he never going to know?

He looks away from the cousin and stares at his feet. Jack nudges him and when Eric looks over Jack has a silent question on his face. Eric shakes his head and smiles weakly at him. _I'm fine,_ he mouths, looking away before he can see what he knows is Jack's unconvinced face. He got to know it real well during checking practice.

The cousin finishes up and heads back into the crowd. Aunt Mary, his daddy's sister, gets up and tries to say something but she gets choked up three words in and gives up, going back to her seat with her face in her hands. Her husband slides an arm around her and guides her head to his shoulder, and Eric just aches for her.

At the end of the service, as the casket is lowered into the ground, the man from the funeral home invites the family to throw white lilies into the grave. His mother barely manages to do it before she has to be led back to her seat to collapse against Uncle Bill. One by one, the Bittles file up to the grave and toss their flowers in. Uncle Mike drops in a football, which makes people chuckle. Eric regrets not bringing the puck from his first Samwell goal.

Eric swallows and takes his lily and steps up to the edge of the grave, peering into it. The casket looks so unassuming, just a silver box with black trim. It's very tasteful. Eric picked it out. He's amazed they're about to bury a box that had cost thousands of dollars into the ground. _With his daddy in it._

He throws his lily in and walks away without looking back.

Jack hooks an arm around Eric's shoulders and gives him a solid side-hug. "You good?"

"Yeah," says Eric, though his chest hurts and his stomach's churning. "I think I'm ready to go."

He just needs food, probably. He's just hungry, that's all. He'll be fine once they get home.

—

At the house, Eric presides over the kitchen, making sure the food is out and that there are enough paper plates and plenty of sweet tea for everyone. Jack finds him making another pitcher; they've already gone through five.

"Bittle," says Jack. "Have you eaten?"

"What? Oh, no." Eric is glad he'd sent Jack out for extra ice. "I'll get something later. I'm fine."

Jack eyes him suspiciously. "Have you even sat down once since we got back from the church?"

"I—" Eric pauses and thinks. "No," he says in a meek voice. "But I will, I just need to—"

Jack grabs him by the shoulders and steers him into a chair, giving him a little shove so that he sits down whether he wants to or not. Eric glares up at him.

"Why are you like this?" he asks with a groan. "Okay, okay. I'll take a break. Can you pour me some tea?" He reaches for the fried chicken. "Have _you_ eaten?"

Jack nods. "I had some chicken and potato salad. The macaroni and cheese was pretty good, too."

"Welcome to Southern mourning," says Eric. "We'll do our level best to feed the grief out of you." He bites into a drumstick and moans. "Oh, this is like a hug from the _Lord_ , gosh."

They sit in companionable silence while Eric wolfs down two drumsticks and a dollop of mac and cheese. He's halfway through his second glass of sweet tea when Moomaw appears in the kitchen doorway. "So this is where you've run off to," she says. She smiles at them and pours herself a tea. "Hiding out?"

"Feeding the whole family is hungry work," says Eric. "I just needed to eat something is all. You need anything? Want me to fix you a plate?"

"Lord, no," she says. "I have eaten so much I think I'm gonna burst. Javi called it a food baby and that is _exactly_ what it feels like." She takes a sip and smiles. "Dicky, no one makes tea like you do."

He ducks his head. "C'mon, Moomaw," he says, secretly pleased. "Yours is better."

"I don't think so," she says. She winks at Jack. "I bet Handsome Boyfriend here agrees with me."

Eric nearly spits tea everywhere. He swallows and coughs. "We— oh Lord, he's not, we're not."

"Oh," she says, frowning. "Well sakes, why not?"

" _Moomaw,_ " says Eric, sputtering. "For one thing, and I don't know _how_ you knew about _me,_ " says Eric, keeping his voice low. "But Jack's straight."

Jack clears his throat and Eric glances at him. He's looking at Eric with an unreadable expression that's intense enough to make Eric a little nervous.

"I'm not," he says. He glances at Eric's grandmother shyly, then looks back at Eric. "Not exactly, anyway," he mutters.

Eric blinks.

"Well," Moomaw raises her glass. "Welcome to the family, honey." She pecks Jack's cheek and pats Eric's hair. "You take care of yourself too, you hear me Dicky?" She shakes a finger at Eric. "You been flittin' around all day like a dang butterfly. Don't think I don't see it. You don't have to do everything, you know."

"I know," Eric says. He doesn't tell her that he _does,_ because there's no one else. His mother and Moomaw are mourning too hard to be really useful, and both of his dad's parents died a couple of years ago; his daddy's sister and brothers all live in Texas and can't be around for all the local planning. Eric is an only child and now the so-called _man of the house_ , so it falls to him to make sure everyone's fed and happy—or as happy as anybody can be at a funeral reception. And Eric doesn't really mind, he's at his best when he's taking care of people. It's a little like feeding a team of hockey players, so something like this is definitely in Eric's wheelhouse.

"I'm fine," he says, shaking her off. "I'm just dandy, thank you very much."

"Mmm-hmm." Moomaw gives him a long look, then turns to Jack. "Mind him for me, would you, Jack?"

"Absolutely," says Jack with a little salute. "I'll keep track of him."

" _Him_ is sitting right here," grumbles Eric. "I'm _fine,_ I said."

Moomaw pats his cheek and hums again. When she leaves the kitchen falls silent, but this time it's awkward. Eric squirms in his chair, itching to speak but unsure of what to say. Jack picks up a fork and pokes at the potato salad.

"I'm sorry," says Eric, when he can't stand it anymore. "I guess she really did figure it out about me, and— Lord, I can't even _believe_ that." Eric looks at his glass of tea. "Anyway, sorry about her."

"No need." Jack picks up another piece of chicken and bites into it. "My grandmother thought every single girl I knew was  _The One._ She was relentless. Your grandmother isn't half as bad, believe me, mine has said way worse things."

"You ain't seen Moomaw at full force," says Eric. "Coach loved her to pieces but he was sure scared of her, most of the time." Eric grins. "He tried real hard never to make her mad."

"Did he succeed?" says Jack, wiping his hands on a napkin. Eric shakes his head.

"Lord, no," he says. "He made her mad all the time. They bickered like _they_ were the married couple, even when Peepaw was still alive." Eric picks at his own napkin. "This is gonna be so hard on her."

"It's hard on everyone," says Jack. "It's hard on _you._ "

"Oh my God, I'm fine," says Eric wearily. "I keep _telling_ you that. Hopefully someday you'll believe it." Eric gets up and dumps his plate in the trash. "I'm going to go upstairs and wash up, I feel like I'm made out of grease."

"Okay," says Jack. "I'll be here."

"I know," says Eric, smiling at him as he heads upstairs. It's so much quieter up here, and Eric immediately finds it easier to breathe. He opens the door to his room and stops in his tracks.

There, sitting on his pillow on the air mattress, is Señor Bun.

Eric shuts the door quietly and picks him up. He sits on the edge of the mattress, stroking Señor Bun's ears with his thumbs, over and over, the velveteen worn off down to thin fabric; it won't be long before Eric has to put him away for good to preserve him. Not anytime soon, though.

His chest suddenly feels like when someone opens the door on a plane that's 30,000 feet up. All the air leaves him at once and he bows his head over Señor Bun with his eyes squeezed shut. It's too much. It's _too much._

Eric doesn't know how much time passes between one shuddering breath and the next. He tips over onto the mattress and lays on his side, curled up around his bunny and staring out into middle distance until the light from the window changes. He can hear the sounds of people downstairs get quieter and quieter until it's just a few voices too faint to recognize. He should get up, _get up get up get up,_ but he can't. He _can't._

"Bittle?" He hears Jack in the hall. "Are you up here?" Eric doesn't answer, just folds in on himself more. He closes his eyes when the door opens. "Oh, you're napping."

Eric opens his eyes and looks at him. "Jack," he says, and his voice sounds _awful,_ like he's never spoken a word in his life. "Jack."

"Hey." Jack quickly closes the door and comes right over, sitting next to Eric's head. "You okay, bud?"

"I'm—" He pauses at the look on Jack's face. "What?"

"You're crying," whispers Jack.

Eric touches his face and his hand comes back wet. Sure enough, tears course down Eric's cheeks and all at once they threaten to drown him. He sits up too fast and the room spins, but the tears don't stop. He feels the sob in his throat right before he lets it escape, followed by another, until Eric is crying uncontrollably. He can't help it. He's sobbing so hard he barely feels Jack gather him up and hold on tight as Eric cries harder than he's ever done in his life. He's not quiet about it either, which is probably why the door flies open and there's his mama standing there, in her good dress and no shoes, looking wild in the eyes.

"Dicky?" He peers up at her through watery eyes. She's looking at him with an expression that Eric can only describe as devastated. "Oh, baby." She sits on his other side, holding on to him—and Jack by proximity—and rocking back and forth. "Oh, my sweet boy."

"He— How is he gone?" asks Eric. He doesn't expect an answer, he knows no one has one. "How? Why is this happening? What did I do?"

"You didn't do anything," murmurs Jack. "It happens, Eric. It happens."

"Why is it happening to _me?_ " he wails. "I want— I never got to tell him, Jack." His throat feels so tight that it's hard to get the words out. "I never told him."

"What, baby?" his mother asks. Jack seems to know what's coming because he holds Eric just a little tighter. "What didn't you tell him?"

"That— that I'm gay," he says, sniffling into Jack's shirt. "Mama, I didn't mean to tell you like this, but— I didn't get to tell him. He didn't know who I really am. He won't ever know." He starts crying again. "I'll never know if he'd still love me."

"Of _course_ he would," his mother says fiercely. "Honey, he loved you _so much._ "

Eric hiccups another sob. "I want—I want him back," he whimpers. "I want my _daddy._ " He thumps Jack's chest with his fist, not hard, but it makes a satisfying _thump_ and he leaves his hand there, feeling Jack's heartbeat. "I want my daddy back," he whispers, mostly to himself. Jack tightens his grip.

His mother clings to him, crying as much as he is. Eric, through his haze of grief, thinks Jack must feel so awkward, so out of depthy, but Jack doesn't move or loosen his hold on him. They just sit there, the three of them together, Eric and his mother weeping as twilight becomes nightfall, casting the room in light and dark shades of blue. Eventually, Eric's tears subside and he's able to pull away from Jack a little—not all the way, not yet. Just a little bit longer.

"What was it?" asks Jack. He keeps his voice soft; Eric's mother has fallen asleep beside them, curled at the end of the bed. Eric laughs a little and tugs his blanket free so he can drape it over her, sort of. "Bittle?"

Eric holds up Señor Bun. "Coach got Bun for me at the hospital gift shop about an hour before I was born. He hadn't even met me, yet, but he gave me my first friend." He sniffles and looks at Jack. "How did you get him here without me knowing?"

Jack's ears go red again. "I put him at the bottom of your bag at first," he says. "Then I put him in mine after we went to Walmart. I'm sorry I took him without asking, but I didn't want you to forget him and I thought— I wanted to save him until I thought you'd really need him."

He's all cried out or else Eric would probably burst into tears again. "Oh God, I love you," he sighs. He immediately blanches and looks at Jack, wild-eyed. Jack looks a little stunned. "I mean— I mean, you know, as a— Oh _lord._ " Eric covers his face in his hands.

"Eric," says Jack. "Look at me." Eric peers through his fingers. "Where am I right now?" asks Jack.

Eric frowns, confused. "What? I don't—"

"Where are we? Right now?"

"In my bedroom? In Georgia," he ventures. Jack nods.

"And where am I supposed to be right now?" he asks, in the same gentle tone as the first question. Eric thinks.

"Uh, it's Friday night so," he says, "in Boston playing the Bruins, I think?"

"Right." Jack keeps looking at him. "Just think about it for a minute. Where I'm supposed to be, what I'm supposed to be doing, and where I am instead."

Eric swallows hard and looks at him with wide eyes. "You're here for me," he whispers, a little in disbelief. "You're missing games for me." Eric's eyes prickle with tears; maybe he's not quite done crying yet, not if life is throwing him another curve ball.

"You love me," says Eric, gazing at Jack like he's a brand new thing.

Jack smiles. "Most ardently," he says with a small smile.

Eric laughs, a little hysterically. "Fancypants word, there."

"It's Jane— Nevermind." Jack scoots closer to Eric on the bed. "I do love you. It scares the shit out of me. I probably wouldn't have said anything, just keep hoping you would."

Eric nods. "Jack, honey, I didn't even know you aren't _straight_ until tonight," he says. "That's a bit out of left field, gotta say."

"I know, sorry," says Jack. "I'm bisexual. I don't really like telling people at all because I don't think it should be _important_. It took me half a year to tell Shitty." Jack looks a little peaky. "Please don't tell anyone," he adds, though it seems to Eric like Jack's only saying it because he thinks he has to.

"You can trust me," says Eric urgently. "Jack, you can tell me anything."

Jack reaches up and runs his palm along Eric's jaw, fingers ghosting over the tender skin of his throat. Eric shivers. "I want to tell you _everything,_ " says Jack, punctuating his statement by ducking his head and giving Eric a soft kiss. Eric sighs into it, then pulls away and looks Jack in the eye.

"This isn't some weird gratitude thing," says Eric fervently. "I've loved you for over a _year._ I just need you to know that, Jack. This ain't new."

"I know," says Jack. "I thought maybe you did, but I didn't know how to find out. I'm not good at being, uh, subtle. I mean, I thought I was being really obvious when we were at the store the other day."

"You were not obvious enough, sweetheart," says Eric. "You sure had me fooled, anyway." He stretches up. "Can I…?"

They kiss for a long moment, until Eric suddenly breaks off with a little yelp. "Lord, I forgot my _mother_ is sitting a foot away while I'm making out with— With my— _you_."

"Yeah," says Jack, leaning in and nosing at Eric's temple. Eric giggles. 

"Who are you and what have you done with our favorite hockey robot?" he asks, batting at Jack's hands.

"Beep boop," says Jack. "I'm trying a new thing where I am—" his voice goes a little higher and takes on a bad Boston accent "— _a real boy with thoughts and feelings of his own that are perfectly valid and acceptable to share with others because it's healthy Jack for fuck's sake."_

Eric pulls back and looks at him, grinning. "Shitty?"

Jack nods. "What gave it away?" He chuckles and pulls Eric close again.

They hold each other for a little while longer, until Jack starts to wriggle. "Hang on—be right back," he says, sounding embarrassed as he gently extricates himself from Eric's arms and kisses the top of his head. He sees the grin on Eric's face and scowls. "There was a _lot_ of tea today," he says defensively.

Eric snickers. "It's so romantic," he says, grinning up at Jack. "You've set the mood perfectly."

"You can walk back to Massachusetts, you know."

Eric shakes his head. "Empty threat," he says with a smile.

"Yeah, you're right." Jack kisses the top of Eric's head again. "Be right back."

"I'll be here." Eric catches his hand and kisses his knuckles, marveling at the fact that _he_   _gets to do this now._ He gets to kiss _Jack,_ and Jack wants to kiss _him,_ and he wishes fiercely that his daddy could be here to know that Eric has finally _found_ someone good and true who looks after him and needs looking after. Someone he's in sync with, someone who challenges him.

And—Eric can just hear Shitty shouting about _heteronormative bullshit gender roles—_ Jack is the type of man his daddy would have respected: tall, sturdy and strong, good at sports, into things like World War II history and fishing. If his daddy would have been fine with Eric being gay and bringing a boy home, Jack would have been the perfect choice.

It just guts him that he's never going to be able to tell his daddy about Jack. Eric took it for granted that he could wait and wait and wait, that there'd be _time_ for him to work up the nerve, to find his bravery and follow it through. But there isn't. There's no time. It's run out, leaving Eric bereft and feeling every bit like a coward.

When Jack leaves the room Eric lies back and stares up at the mismatched glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling. He feels so very far away from that Stop & Shop aisle—was that really only a week ago? In just a few days, his heart has both shattered and scattered, but he's already stumbled on one of the first—and possibly one of the biggest—pieces. Eric's daddy's gone, but in front of him now is something new with Jack, and that's hardly a _replacement,_ he knows, nothing ever will be, but the future seems a lot less bleak now that he's got a hand to hold on the way.

Eric closes his eyes and tries to process some really complicated emotions he's not entirely sure he's really equipped for.

"Dicky?"

He opens his eyes and looks over to find his mother hugging a pillow to her face and peering over it. He can see the mirth in her eyes. _Oh no_.

"You heard all of that," says Eric, his cheeks igniting. He covers his face with his hands. "Oh God, my mother was in the same room and _awake_ for my first kiss. Tell me you didn't _watch_ , at least."

"Relax," she says, sitting up. "I didn't hear everything, but I heard enough." She reaches over and grabs his hands in hers. "I am so happy for you, honey," she says. "I'm glad something good came out of all of this. He's a good boy." She strokes his hair and studies him. "You took such good care of us, Dicky. All of us, especially me." His mother pulls him up and draws him in for a hug. "I'm so grateful. I'm so  _glad_ you're my son. If your daddy had to go so soon I'm real lucky that at least he gave me you first."

Eric shoves his nose against her neck and heaves a big sigh. He's not going to cry again—he wants to, but if he lets himself cry again he's going to end up with a splitting headache. He knows there'll be more tears, maybe even before tomorrow morning, but for now he feels better. The tightness in his throat has lessened and his lungs work again. He feels looser, more relaxed than he's been since that day in the grocery store, which feels like a million years ago. He hugs his mother close and lets her whisper endearments into his ear until Jack lets himself back into the room.

"Well," says Eric, scrubbing his face with his hands. "We've got a lot of work to do downstairs. We should get on that." He gets up and stretches. "Goodness, I feel like I was run over by a tractor."

"That would be uncomfortable," says Jack, standing a little closer than usual. He rests a hand against the small of Eric's back, and Eric's knees almost fold like accordions. He pretends not to see his mother's knowing little smile. She's going to be _impossible_ once she's recovered a bit more. Though to be honest Eric's actually looking forward to having his mother tease him about a boy, the way he's wanted her to his whole life. He'll never have his daddy's approval, but now he knows for sure that he's got hers. It's good. It's more than enough.

His mother yawns. "I'll go get started. See you boys in a bit," she says, a clear instruction to stay upstairs for a few minutes; Eric is _mortified_ that his own mother is his wingman. He refuses to look at her when she kisses his cheek, but he can feel her smirk.

The door's barely shut before Eric is turned around and kissed within an inch of his life, complete with Jack's hand on the back of his neck and his other arm wrapped around Eric's waist. He's even dipping him slightly, and Eric feels like that V-Day photo in Times Square. It's the most romantic thing to ever happen to him.  _This is just like the movies_ , he thinks.

He kisses back as best he can without any real expertise, but Jack seems to like it fine because he doesn't pull away for at least a couple of minutes. When they do eventually part, Eric exhales at length and swoons a little, holding on to Jack so that he doesn't just fall right over.

"Well then," he says, wheezing a little. "Gosh."

"Sorry," says Jack, laughing softly. "I've been wanting to do that for a really long time."

"How long?" Eric asks, running his hands over Jack's lovely, wonderful chest.

"I think it was the kegster, the one where Kent showed up. The only reason I was down at the party was because I wanted to spend time with you, and once I figured out what that meant, the rest was easy." Jack smiles at him and strokes his cheek with his knuckles. "Loving you is the easiest thing I've ever done."

"Oh, _hush up,_ " says Eric, dying a thousand deaths because this is romance novel-level stuff and he's _living it_. "You're such a charmer. I'm in so much trouble."

"Probably," says Jack, kissing him again.

—

They leave on Sunday night. Jack has already missed three games and really can't miss any more, and Eric's got a lot of classes to make up for as well. The jet is still in Atlanta, fueled up and waiting at the airport. Jack's already got the car started; he sits in the driver's seat while Eric says his goodbyes.

"You call me," he tells his mother. "Day or night. Anytime. You call me, or Gracie Mae, or Moomaw, or Auntie Rosa, anybody. We'll help, even if all you need to do is talk, okay?"

"Okay," she says, nodding. "Oh, Dicky. I wish y'all could stay. I miss you so much."

"I know, Mama," says Eric. He's _not_ going to cry again; he'd had a little breakdown in the shower this morning and he's still tired from that. "I'll come back for winter break. A month. Okay? You'll be fine. Javi said he'd come stay with you on weekends and you've got Gracie Mae, too. They're gonna help you with the chores, and Auntie Rosa said she'd help pack up some things if you don't think you can do it. You should talk to Mrs. Davenport, too. She's always tryin' to get you to go to lunch with her."

"I know, I know," she says. "I'm not completely helpless. You go on now. Jack is waiting." She smiles at him and pats his cheek. "I want updates. I need to know my baby's being treated right."

"Pretty sure you don't have to worry about that," he says with an uncontrollable grin. He hugs her tight, so tight. "Bye, Mama. I'll be back in a few weeks, and then we can work on the big stuff together, okay? I love you."

"I love you too, sweetheart. You tell Jack to take care, too, and thank him again for me will you. Drive safe." She sends him off with a kiss on the cheek and a shoulder squeeze. He leaves her waving from the front porch, and he remembers the last time he'd left home to go back to school both his parents had stood waving on the porch as the Uber drove away. It's unsettling to see her standing there alone, small and pale in her favorite robe and bare feet. Eric knows it always will be.

They get food on the way at Waffle House ("It's an American institution, Jack! Make sure you get yourself some grits—don't make that face, you blasphemer!") and then it's straight to the airport.

"How do you feel?" asks Jack, once they're in the air. "All right?"

"Not really," Eric says. Earlier, he and Jack had discussed the proper application of _I'm_ _fine_ and how it's okay to be _not fine_ , and Eric is much always pretty not fine right now, though these days he's a lot more willing to admit it—at least to Jack. "Lardo sent me the info for grief counselors at school, she thinks I should be in a support group for a little while."

"Good idea," says Jack. "And you have Shitty, who is actually pretty good at this stuff." He smiles. "He volunteered for a transgender suicide hotline our frog year. He had to take a bunch of classes in counseling. You really should talk to him."

"I will," says Eric. "Oh, look." He points out the window. Jack gets up and moves to the seat next to him, peering over his shoulder. The sun is setting and the stars are starting to peek out, and there are _so many._ Eric presses his palm to the window and wonders if his daddy can see those same stars.

 _Maybe he can see_ me," he thinks. Jack settles in beside him and takes his hand and squeezes. Eric watches the sky changes colors.  _If you can see me,"_ he thinks _, I'm gonna be fine. Me and Mama are gonna be fine._

He's crying again, very quietly, he doesn't think Jack has noticed. At least he doesn't until the grip on his hand tightens and Jack rests his head on Eric's shoulder. Eric sighs as the moon rises over the jet's wing.

 _I'm not fine right now,_ he thinks, _but I will be._

(He's right.)

—fin—

 

**Author's Note:**

> When I was seventeen my mother died. Grief was a funny thing for me. It took me ages to cry. And even now, 24 years later, losing my mother still feels like losing a limb, and I am still affected by the phantom pain of that loss.
> 
> There's no one way to grieve. There's no right way, no checklist to follow. Healthy grieving does not have to be a linear process through the so-called five stages, and it doesn't even have to make sense. Grief is personal and selfish and your feelings are valid whether you cry in the shower or laugh at funerals. So long as you aren't hurting yourself or others, no one can tell you how to grieve.
> 
> I feel like this is kind of relevant right now.
> 
> Anyway, sorry Coach. Don't take it personal.


End file.
